


everything you once loved remains

by lilaclavenders



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, But they're in love for sure, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, I'll add more tags and characters as I go along, Insecure Victor Nikiforov, Pre-Relationship, Resolved Argument, Vicchan (Yuri!!! on Ice) Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-20 20:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilaclavenders/pseuds/lilaclavenders
Summary: "Could you tell them I said hi?" Yuuri quietly asks, voice too quiet for an audible waver.Mari gives this little, hollow laugh. He's said this once, twice, a thousand times before. "Sure. You're practically one of the only people we talk to-" She pauses. "You know you can call first, for once."Yuuri goes home empty-handed.-Yuuri squints, pushing his glasses up to read his coach's expression. "You really didn't know who I was before, did you?""I did," Viktor replies curtly. His reply is clipped, defensive if Yuuri looked closer. He doesn't elaborate.Yuuri goes home with both hands full.





	1. vic-chan & yuuri

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from: unbroken - birdy
> 
> written almost a year ago, but i didn't want to post it for a while since i almost always reflect yuuri's character with my own when i write seriously. if that makes sense.

 

>  
> 
> _many moons will lighten the way_  
>  and sure this night will follow a day  
>  and everything you once loved remains  
>  unbroken, unbroken

 

* * *

 

 

" _Yuuri?_ " Mari's voice is clear, even through the tinny quality of Yuuri's phone. Her voice is timid and scared the way Yuuri remembers it never being - he has no idea who he can hide behind now, especially when he needs it most. (Although supposes he no longer deserves to do so, after hiding from home for so long.) " _Are you still there?_ "

"Yeah. I have to go, though. Gotta go practise and stuff," Yuuri replies, clipped, his voice a breaking dam of everything his face reveals; he's glad he isn't facetiming with his sister right now. "I'm doing my free skate soon," he lamely adds, as if he were talking about the weather - a sudden, stifling thunderstorm and its pressure and heat falling upon Yuuri at once.

Mari knows this but nonetheless hums in acknowledgement. She asks no further. " _You should get some rest then. Good night_."

"Could you tell them I said hi?" Yuuri quietly asks, voice too quiet for an audible waver.

Mari gives this little, hollow laugh. He's said this once, twice, a thousand times before. " _Sure. You're practically one of the only people we talk to-_ " She pauses. " _You know you can call first, for once."_

"Okay," Yuuri murmurs, guiltily.

" _We don't hate you for leaving_ ," Mari replies a little louder, a little more bolder. Alike her younger brother, she usually hates small talk and unnecessary emotional stress. However, her motives behind such strong dislike differ from his. She chooses to rip the band-aid quickly; Yuuri peels it off slowly, or not at all, anxiously waiting for it to fall off on its own. " _Just..._ " She sighs, " _Look after yourself, Yuuri._ "

"I'll try," Yuuri chuckles weakly in response.

He hangs up.

23 years old and Japan's Ace still finds himself gravitated to the vaguely confined walls of a toilet cubicle, which do nothing to block out how ghastly the echoes of his sharp, sobbing gasps are, against grubby cubicle tiles. He watches his phone screen go black, as Vic- _chan_ 's photo fades, and is greeted with a faint reflection of his blotchy face, stricken with the first punches of grief.

Yuuri's theme this season was a homage to all that flourished under his sun - the delicacies of bird song, the way winter winds fade away into a humid breeze of pale, pink petals and the rose-colours of his warm dawn of a childhood. He could never dream of being able to recreate the exact shade of pink scattering amongst cobblestones, feet and paws of a sleepy fishing town, on the coast of Japan; or the constant levels of familiar chatter of seagulls to people and ocean to sand. It's the childhood innocence he's been trying so hard to retain, even though he lost it, back on a plane to Detroit. He's been far too busy trying to justifying going back home, wondering if gold medals were good enough in exchange for the forgiveness of family who don't even know a single word of the ice.

Would've it made any difference if he went home earlier? He knows his family would've forgiven him for not coming home any sooner already. They just want him home.

Whether he is deserving of it is a different question altogether.

"You should just retire already," he says to his reflection in the mirror, walking out of the bathroom and bumping into a startled blond outside.  


 

* * *

 

 

_"You are coming home right, Yuuri?" Mari had begun the call with a lingering sense of urgency that she was reluctant to push onto her younger brother, shattering his last illusions of his Hasetsu._

_Yuuri's slow to respond, hands still shaking from the adrenaline from his latest runthrough. "I'm not sure yet, but I think Celestino-"_

_"Just stop talking a second," Mari's gruff voice cuts through Yuuri's airy tangent, a learnt mannerism of his when conversing with journalists. "It's Vic-chan, Yuuri."_

_The way Mari (or any child of Hasetsu) says her brother's name can never be replicated with any English tongue, the way the vowels slide from the slow roll of her Japanese tongue with such ease. No one bothers to associate feelings or memories with two, drawn out syllables the way Yuuri does. Her voice is not as soft as it was when she was younger; it couldn't possibly endure ten year's worth of cigarettes without any sacrifice of the sort._

_But Yuuri, with a penchant for the finer things in life, picks up on the way she clings onto his name for dear life. He could almost picture her frown shaping her sentences,_ _hoping the signal was bad enough so she couldn't hear what happens next. So she could try to pretend that Yuuri will be as fine as he was before he ever picked up the phone (or picked up his bags and left home.)_

 _She knows him - he tightens his smile, desperately expectant of another tale of extravagancy, that only comes from the poodle being named after such an extravagant_ _being. "What about him? Did he-"_

_"He's not as young as you left him," Mari says firmly, though her words are hushed and aren't unkind. The band-aid is ripped off prematurely._

_As Yuuri's first and arguably one of his biggest fans, Mari knows Yuuri like the back of her hand._ _She knows he speaks best around_ _topics with the gentle weaving of metaphors and euphemisms that could never be truly translated into other languages. He blends beautifully in whatever environment he's been thrown into, a chameleon unwilling to show off the extent of his colours - a walking contradiction. But at this moment, she needn't say another word, as the small intake of breath on the other side of the call immediately betrays her brother's composure._

 _Yuuri suddenly feels small, the body of a 23 year old suddenly feeling foreign, too big to accommodate the mind of his 12 year old self. He's curling up into himself before he knows it and tightens his grip onto his phone. "I_ _see," he mimics his older sister's tone; the full impact of a bullet is never felt until moments after, as shock, pain and panic - and even then, you're doing your best to suppress the pain; you forget everything and everyone else exists._

_He stays silent for the next few moments, not quite knowing how to comprehend a loss like this. Sure, he's dealt with loss in competition and a consequential, yet temporary, loss in confidence. For some reason, even though he hasn't been home in years, this is the first time he's truly realised how much things have changed for him and how he'll never get those moments back. It's a wound that would never heal quite the same way it did as a child, little, pearly white teeth grow into tougher ones you must keep safe until you die._

_"Yuuri?" She timidly asks, "Are you still here?"_

 

* * *

 

  
A weak mind makes a weak body, a weak body makes a weak competition.

He's never been told this, outrightly, but being an athlete in the body of Katsuki Yuuri means you need both a mind and body of rigorous discipline - filtering out heavy carbs and heavy thoughts alike, less empty calories and empty thoughts at night. (Whether the effectiveness of said method has yet to be discussed.)

Yuuri does not win the Grand Prix Final, does not call his parents first and does not watch the medal ceremony. In fact, he does not approach Viktor Nikiforov and does not acknowledge the fact he does not know Yuuri, even if he's a 'well-esteemed' figure skater too.

There's gold in Viktor Nikiforov's eyes and a mirth that could never be ugly, even in the face of glaring, interrogative lights.

"A commemorative photo? Sure!"

He does not respond.

"Yuuri? Are you retiring?"

He does not answer.

Yuuri is well-acquainted to not doing things, as opposed to doing them. He does not practise quads because he does not think he'll ever be as good at them as Viktor Nikiforov is. (Although his spins and steps sequences are rivalled by none.) Being safe in circumstances where he can prevent any disappointment from anyone else who isn't himself. Not coming home, in itself, is safe - even if he feels safest there.

He's so focused on all the negative aspects of himself, his career and his actions that it doesn't get him anywhere outside of his comfort zone - although the sea still ravages on during the darkest of nights, even if you cannot differentiate it from the sky. He does not see beyond his line of vision, although he is pretty short-sighted as of late, relying on glasses more often than not, but he has a few ideas he explores when he's left alone, leaving the door closed, but unlocked in case he wishes to leave.

In summary, he does not pass go or collect $200; he does go home.

 

* * *

 

 

_He goes home._

Of course, just because Vic- _chan_ is gone does not mean Yuuri lost him; Yuuri never lost Viktor Nikiforov because he never had him in the first place - Though, no one could ever know Yuuri without knowing them, too. There will always be evidence that either one existed - whether it be faded, curled posters on walls or the way the floorboards had small scratches (or pictures of a drunken man lingering on a flustered gold-medalist's chest.)

He wonders how he managed to paint Hasetsu with colours he couldn't begin to explain, a 24 year old boy seeing with eyes years younger than his current ones.

But now, Hasetsu is wearing down; her façade of a castle is still beautiful as the focal point of the seaside town, visibly fatigued in the off-season. She retains her youthful glow in the form of her infamous blossoms, from trees a little taller, and playful, choppy waves, breaking into cliffs a little smaller - a reminder that nothing had stayed the same while he had gone, for Yuuri was just like any other person captivated by his treasure of a town, regardless of his achievements and talents, even if he too, was a part of Hasetsu's charm. She smiles with wrinkles, crackles lines of paint from sun bleached buildings, welcoming Yuuri before he knew he would ever come back.

His ballet teacher, he finds, is almost exactly the same as he'd left her. She does not yell, but raises her voice in a graceful manner; her words, on the other hand, may need some reconsideration at times, and are not so graceful.

She wonders if she can play her cards the same way she did five years ago. With a coy smile, she says, "Yuuri! This is definitely not the weight of a winner!"

Yuuri sighs, plagued by grief and fatigue, he throws his aces away. "Good thing I'm not one, Minako-sensei."

Minako does not correct him; she's no longer his teacher. And even with cards in her favour, she can't truly play when met with an opponent as uninspired as her former student. She withdraws. "Well, make sure you stop by the studio," She tentatively says, diverting the conversation.

"Maybe," Yuuri distractedly replies.

His father's rumble of a voice greets Yuuri, as if he'd never left, like the constant bubble of the hot springs and its bursts of hot air.  
"You look just like your Mother!" Yuuri had always wished he could be a little more like her, gentle to those most undeserving of it (like himself.)

"Yuuri? Are you there?" A quickened patter of steps rapidly approaches them, soft and eager. The person in question squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation, the beginnings of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. (He isn't ready.)

"Welcome home, _Yuuri_!" A soft voice cries, arms flailing in excitement.

Perhaps Hiroko is the true embodiment of Hasetsu, never once changing her view of her growing children even though she no longer looks down to see them - in fact, she never did look down upon them. Her brown eyes are the warmest thing Yuuri's ever known: with the sweetness of caramel he once stole from his sister, and a shine that doesn't come from the glare of her glasses, but the kindness he wishes everyone had, even if it doesn't sell like gold and silver.

But good intentions don't always come through your actions, maybe that's why Yuuri's never really said anything.

Yuuri embraces her in a hug, with five years of unspoken trouble, heavier than his suitcases, instantly melting away from his shoulders to hers, and apologies of not coming home are soon silenced before he ever thought of uttering excuses. He knows his mother will forgive him, anyway. He hates that she'll forgive him anyway.

Slowly breaking away from her son's embrace, Yuuri's Mother delicately whispers, "Would you like to see Vic- _chan_?"

Yuuri's breath hitches as he dips his head, a small bow of a nod. Then, he walks away, his feet automatically dragging him away with a sense of desperation easily mistaken for eagerness. Hiroko's shoulders do not drop until Yuuri leaves the room. Minako dares not utter a sound, fearful of breaking the dam.

Hiroko, optimism and unconditional love personified, sees no reason as to why Yuuri pushes himself so hard, mentally and physically; she cannot pinpoint the moment where he had decided to limit himself on everything he deserve, apologising whenever he had achieved less than whatever his mind had conjured up for him. (He calls them accomplishments, Hiroko would call them humanly impossible, almost torture.) Her son would never show her his blisters and bruises, but she knows they're there. Yuuri had never been good at hiding his wounds, bloodied socks trophies of his sacrifices. Even then, she fears he may do that anyway, apologise and hide - Yuuri's always been fiercely determined, but Hiroko would call it stubborness.

She knows she forgives him for it, anyway, because that's what mothers do.

_Ah._

Maybe that's why he was afraid to go home, always forgiven for his failures before he's even tried, before he can even forgive himself.

"Vic- _chan_ ," A voice hauntingly greets, fragile and guilty. "I should've come home sooner."

Hiroko cannot help but stay at the door, listening to her son cry out five years of loneliness in one night.

She remembers keeping Yuuri's door ajar for the poodle, making sure he had kept away from all of his owner's keepsakes but ensuring he had easy access to the bed. Hiroko remembers waking up at 5am every morning to walk, at a considerably breezy pace, with Vic-chan, marvelling at how hard her boy had worked to get where he is, racing the sun to see who could rise first. She used Vic-chan to see Yuuri through a different perspective, to further her understand of what he traded to the devil in order to become as magnificent as he is today. No one could possibly endure that much hardship and not leave so much behind.

"I know you've already forgiven me," Yuuri mumbles, voice a little deeper than Hiroko's remembers. She smiles in agreement. "But I don't think I can forgive myself."

That's where the likeness between Hiroko and her only son _stops_.


	2. viktor & yuuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they come back together after finishing a meal.

 

Viktor Nikiforov, in Yuuri's eyes, is simultaneously everything and nothing he'd dreamed about. He's clumsy in places where any other person can walk, briskly jog or even sprint in. For example, if Yuuri does the splits as he warms up, he's greeted by the amazement of Viktor reminiscing about how _he_ had never been able to successfully attempt such a feat. At the same time, he talks about learning how to tie his shoelaces for the first time at 6 years old because he'd recieved these bright, glittery blue ones once, and wore them on his first pair of skates. Viktor speaks fluently in three languages Yuuri understands (in _varying_ degrees) but still favours the language of inappropriate jokes and flirting. Viktor, the coach, is _far too_ deft for someone who's not even 30 years old yet, eyes with slight crows feet, when smirking, and a perfectly straight nose bridge. A man, made of ice, is opaque and reveals no secrets but the reflections of your own - this, Yuuri knows for sure.

Viktor's voice is soft as velvet yet tears through Yuuri's soft skin, painlessly until he realises what's been said - by then he's probably lost too much blood anyway. Viktor plays his cards with a poker face, with aces hidden in his sleeve, where Yuuri keeps his heart, beyond any constraints of rules.

Now Viktor's leaning closer to Yuuri by the second, "I'm here to make you a winner - you know, you were wonderful last year! I heard you were a fan-"

Yuuri's so tired.

"How would you know? I bet y'barely even knew my name last year," Yuuri mutters, because why on earth is Viktor adamant on using this façade with his self-declared student? "I've asked you the same question and each time I've asked, you've given me a different answer."

Viktor, Yuuri decides, is both similar and dissimilar to himself, however vague that decision is. Of course, both do not like talking directly and harshly subjecting themselves to a brash spotlight - but the methods of coaxing a particular topic around are where the similarities end.

Yuuri, with almost a decade's worth of knowing Viktor through screens and magazines, finds that the legend himself enjoys the scenic route with conversations. Russia's poster-boy has his hand behind his back with a full house and ways to coerce reporters into walking down flowery passages, turning five minutes of interrogation of ten minutes of nothing but trivial, pretty things not worth hearing from normal people - in other words, he gives daisies out when he knows he's got roses in his garden.

_He would make a great politician if he retired_ , he heard Mari say once.  _He's childish_ , she said. _He plays with people like they're toys._

"So," Yuuri asks. "What are you doing here?"

 

* * *

 

_A young journalist pushes his way to the front, directly below Viktor's position and line of vision. He nods at the newcomer, allowing him to speak, as if this were an exchange between royalty to mortal._

_A tentative clearing of his throat begins his question. "So, Viktor, what are your plans next?"_

_Viktor puts a cold finger to his lip, pretending to contemplate. "You know, whatever it is us 20 somethings get up to, you know how it is. What do you think?"_

_"What am I thinking?" The reporter is far too excited, immediately charmed by the gold medalist, and therefore bravely asks, "Are you going to retire?"_

_Viktor smiles, using whatever default placidity he already wears on his face to conceal a moment of panic. He lowers the bait, "Would that surprise you?"_

_People forget he's only 28. He's practically a child in the grand scheme of things - he doesn't know anything outside himself, with only a handful of those years a life without ice skates. The likes of Yakov Feltsman broke him in, in half the time it took him to become a household name._

_The reporter, a little fazed, continues. "Maybe, but it's bound to happen sometime."_

_Viktor Nikiforov is a monster of a man, with hoards of gold medals beneath the feet carrying him on top of podiums, mountains. He is unsure how to answer, unsure where to go next - there's only so far you can go once you've reached the top._

_"Then I'll just have to do something to change that answer!" Viktor laughs, ultimately leaving the young journalist unsatisfied, with more questions than answers._

_But one thing is clear, for sure - Viktor's unpredictability has become (somewhat) of a predictability and he's running out of options._

_"You'll have to forgive me, I have a banquet to attend to!" He briskly exits the room, leaving the volcano of journalists and his coach behind him, erupting a thunderous roar. "Chanel isn't given to anyone, no?"_

_He doesn't know anything outside himself. A weak body makes for a weak mind - who will skate for lonely Viktor Nikiforov when he is unable to skate for himself? Who will forgive him for his recklessness? Surely not his own reflection._

_Forgiveness is worth so much pride, Viktor thinks it's given to those so undeserving - that's probably why the world bows down to his feet, blindly following him wherever he goes._

 

* * *

  

Viktor does not look away from Yuuri when he answers him. "I'm here partly because I'm annoyed." His voice is thorny and Yuuri is intrigued, continuing to burrow deeper.

He tilts his head in confusion, Viktor mirrors him. "Why _are_ you annoyed?"

Playful, Viktor shoots back immediately, poking a finger into Yuuri's cheek, "Why are _you_ annoyed?"

Yuuri throws his hands up in the air in disbelief. "I'm not annoyed!"

Viktor takes advantage of this and pokes his student's side, smirking. "You are now."

The pair laugh loudly, over a tatami table and some ramen; warm, dimmed candlelight does wonders to enhance the intimacy between Viktor and Yuuri. The latter is still in disbelief - he's dining with the man he's looked up to for a decade. He's teaching Viktor Nikiforov how to use chopsticks whilst arguing with him like a child. _Unbelievable_.

"You didn't answer my question," Yuuri finally says, quiet.

"And you never answered mine," Viktor quips back, quietly slipping some money into the bill. His hands are softer in the off-season, now that he has time to truly look after himself.

"I," Yuuri begins, tearing his gaze away from Viktor, "was supposed to retire."

Viktor stills, so does Yuuri; this is the harsh spotlight that blinds them both momentarily, this is where things change indefinitely for them both.

"I see," Viktor says after a while, adjusting to the light shed onto Yuuri Katsuki.

Yuuri squints, pushing his glasses up to read his coach's expression. "You really didn't know who I was before, did you?"

"I did," Viktor replies curtly. His reply is clipped, defensive if Yuuri looked closer. He doesn't elaborate.

"But that doesn't explain why you're annoyed!" Yuuri bursts out, surprising them both.

Viktor starts to walk off and pay for their meal, much to Yuuri's chagrin. He replies with an air of self-righteousness and petty accusation, "Shouldn't you know why?"

"Why would I?" Yuuri blinks, confused.

The back of Viktor's neck is a little red, with the flush of alcohol, the heat of the broth and maybe from the sudden interrogative nature this conversation has taken. Viktor shrugs, miles ahead of Yuuri, with knowledge he probably hasn't got. "Think, Yuuri." Viktor didn't want to come off as patronising (but also he clearly did.)

_He's fucking childish_ , that Yuuri knows for certain.

Viktor is childish, but Yuuri doesn't seem to mind as time passes. In fact, he welcomes this behaviour. Though he isn't outrightly encouraging it just yet (not while he's still supposed to play student, anyway.)

He leaves the door ajar, just in case Viktor suddenly changes his mind and goes.

"Thinking won't do any good if you don't give something to think about," Yuuri says, before Viktor is out of earshot.

He knows how to deal with childish behaviour, he's chased after clumsy, unabashed confidence before - he swears he knows how, because it works. Yuuri knows Viktor isn't Vic-chan, but both are cocky to the point where they are too proud to backtrack what they've said (or in Vic-chan's case, done.)

Viktor comes back, a warm smile on his face as if he's scrubbed his annoyance away with a breath of fresh air (and another shot), and grabs Yuuri's arm. "Are you tired?"

It's almost midnight, but Yuuri is sure that isn't the point. "Depends," he sighs, allowing himself to be pulled out of the restaurant by Viktor's warm hands.

Viktor's eyes give away what his words don't, his irises sparkling even though his words are calm. He does not apologise, but does drop the subject. "Do you want to walk for a while?"

"Sure," Yuuri replies, deciding to entertain Viktor's procrastination. 

Eventually, Yuuri does tear down his posters (gently, of course.) And over the course of the past couple of months, Yuuri doesn't seem to mourn over the fact that the airbrushed, millionth-time gold medalist, Russian darling Viktor Nikiforov never really existed.

Instead of whatever illusion Yuuri grew up with, he's become extremely fond of Vitya, his extremely elaborate skin-care routine (even though he'll still get freckles under the sun), the way his the pitch of his voice varies when talking to Makkachin, the way his ridiculously shiny hair always favours the left side of his face, the curl of his Russian tongue around certain words Yuuri would usually find mundane and all the things he would never find out about Viktor through an interview or magazine. He is no longer a God amongst men, painted as Gold as the medals he flourishes (but he shows Yuuri the gold filling in one of his back teeth and that, in Yuuri's opinion, is far better.)

"You had a dog once, too," Viktor says, gently.

_It's funny_ , Yuuri thinks. It's as if the pair of them are having a continuous conversation - Yuuri unknowingly starts them as Viktor picks them up, trailing after untethered threads they have yet to tie or cut. They speak to each other through more languages than one - through skating to the very complex and unique nature of their relationship. (Neither of them are fluent in the latter, unsurprisingly.)

"Vic- _chan_ ," Yuuri's choked syllables clumsily fall out, but eventually, they find their way into Viktor's pink ears as if they belonged there. Yuuri stares up, watching distant planes and stars to distract himself from his embarrasment of a revelation.

"Yes?" Viktor's ears perk up a little, his smirk coming back. Yuuri suspects his mother had given him a crash course in the meanings of honourifics.

"No, that was his name." He feels a little strange saying "Y'know, Vic- _chan_." He belongs to 18 year old Yuuri, not 24 year old Yuuri. He belongs to _someone else_.

"Ah," the human Viktor, the alive one, says. He wraps his human fingers around Yuuri's own and his breathing matches his, in fear of ruining whatever reverie his student has induced himself into this time.

Yuuri looks back at Viktor, who was already looking at him. "Huh?"

"It's still nice to know you weren't lonely all this time," Viktor says, his voice so light and sincere, it catches in the mild breeze and floats delightfully around Yuuri's ears. "Is it too late to change Makkachin's name to Yuuri? Actually, three of you would be _very_ confusing-"

"I never took Vic- _chan_ to Detroit with me," Yuuri pointlessly says, the high of Viktor's soft ramble making his words drift, into nothing but further embarrassment, away from the question of the looming nature of their relationship.

Viktor hums in response. Yuuri can almost hear him think, with the way Viktor's eyebrows slowly draw closer to each other. "You were alone, but not lonely?" He pauses, recollecting his thoughts. "He wasn't there with you in Detroit, but you still had photos of him, yes?"

Yuuri nods in understanding. He turned 18 a while ago - in fact, he can't even remember much of that day. He was clumsier, when his growth spurt finally caught up to him and edged him further away from underneath his Mother's gaze and into the JSF's. He was very insecure with himself - from self-identity to self-image, he never quite strayed away from the confines of Viktor Nikiforov's shadow or his Mother's. He liked being safe, under trees so he wouldn't burn under the sun and watching live streams of Viktor Nikiforov in his room so he wouldn't bother his family with his rollercoaster of emotions. (He cried every time, but _that's besides the point_.)

"Yeah," Yuuri says, revealing a small smile. "I did."

Viktor is a very easy person to forgive, even though he seldom apologises; Yuuri's already forgiven him for something, he's not quite sure what, but he's forgiven. There's a warmth in his chest, but he'll blame it on the _sake_.

Viktor's head is tilted, and he's got a little bit of a smirk. "So, do you know why I was so annoyed?"

 

* * *

 

 

_A quick tumble of quiet footsteps are heard. Yuuri returns after a long, gruelling day at school; the footsteps diminish once the student himself reaches his bedroom door._

_Slowly opening his door, Yuuri calls out, "Vic-chan?"_

_Brown curls sit very still, underneath blue bed covers. The hidden pup immediately betrays himself and pops his head out of the covers, dropping an item from his mouth in the process. He wags his tail slowly, unsure of what to do next, now that his cover is blown._

_Yuuri slides his glasses onto his face and analyses the object in his palm, now a little damp from dog drool. Ah, yes, Yuuri's limited edition encrusted glitter rose-gold Viktor Nikiforov figurine from his senior debut, is now decapitated, drowning in saliva and redecorated in bite marks._

_"Vic-chan! I saved up for months trying to buy him!" Yuuri passive-aggressively says, in that voice he does when talking to Vic-chan - unnecessary fluctuations in the voice, a lilting rhythm and somewhat sounding like a five year old. "Come here and-"_

_Vic-chan runs away, like the savage he is, taking the remains of the figure skater figurine in his clutches away with him._

_Yuuri laughs, running after his dog and abandoning the plastic figurine, a little pained._

 

* * *

 

 

"I don't know," Yuuri says, pulling his hand away whilst shrugging.

"It's interesting," Viktor says, hoping it would change Yuuri's answer, whatever it may be. "No one's ever done that before."

Yuuri quietly murmurs, "Is it because I walked away from you after Sochi?" He cringes.

"Walked away?" Viktor blinks. "You could say that," he says carefully, analysing Yuuri's response. "I thought you were going to at least say something."

"I've told you this already," Yuuri wraps his arms around himself. "I knew you had no idea who I was then, I didn't want you to see whatever I was-"

"Well, I told you this already too." The Russian stubbornly refutes, running a hand through his hair. "Why would I have no idea who my competition was? I'm not the most decorated figure skater for nothing, _Yuuri_." Viktor stops in the middle of the road and grasps Yuuri's shoulders exasperatedly. He says, irritated, "I knew exactly who you were the moment you entered Sochi."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh, Yuuri," Viktor sighs, deflated. "I really thought I meant something to you, back then."

Yuuri frowns, in disbelief. "Meant something? I started skating competitively because of you!" Posters of Viktor Nikiforov pale in comparison to the man under Hasetsu lights, pink from anger and some desperation Yuuri can't pinpoint. Some of Viktor's hair is ruffled and some of it sticks to his forehead; this is real and deeply flawed, a genuine display of vulnerability.

"But you wanted to retire," Viktor shoots back, unconvinced. "You were clearly ready to leave everything behind. Was that your final bravado, back then?" Now he's snarky and mean and everything Yuuri wished he'd never be (well, to him at least.) He's got a perfect eyebrow raised, challenging his student in something he doesn't quite understand either. "You really had the upper hand there, I waited on you for months," he hisses, hurt.

"I didn't know that I wanted to retire for good! I just decided a little while ago," Yuuri further retreats into his jacket, close to tears, "And I didn't mean to hurt you- _Why would you think I would want to do that_?" Yuuri finishes quietly, in an attempt to cover up the way he's hiccuping. Though with meeting the man behind Viktor will never come without being acquainted with his emotions - Yuuri wonders, if Viktor's ever yelled before and if anyone's ever been on the receiving end.

Viktor tries to backtrack from his spurt of spitefulness, whatever that was; it's incredibly human and avant-garde, he couldn't have possibly choreographed for this to happen. His face contorts from shock, guilt and concentration all at once. "I don't think that-"

Yuuri looks up, trying to suppress his tears. "I blame myself for my own mistakes, I'm used to that. I just took responsibility and felt that retiring was the best choice for everyone's sake." He quickly flickers his gaze towards Viktor.

"Is it still the best choice?" Viktor asks, staring at Yuuri. His fists are clenched and his eyes are the bluest storms, a tornado ready to land depending on Yuuri's next words.

Yuuri shrugs, averting his gaze once more. "I was the reason you've stopped skating."

"I did not board a plane with the shittiest airplane company for you to shrug and tell me my decision a mistake," Viktor snapss, crossing his arms in defiance. "You asked me to come here in the first place and now you don't think I should be here anymore?"

"I never asked you to come here, Viktor." Yuuri says, finally facing Viktor with prolonged eye contact. "I don't know what you're talking about." His voice is calmer now - at least compared to Viktor's.

Viktor laughs harshly, "Are you sure? Because I have, like, dozens of witnesses who know you asked me!" He pulls his phone out, furiously scrolling. Yuuri takes note of how his American English mannerisms have made their way into Viktor's suave Russian accent.

"Stop, you're a bit drunk, Viktor," Yuuri cowers, a mixture of embarrassment and uncertainty - he's never seen a moment where the Russian wasn't anything but calm and sure of himself. "I really don't know what you're talking about."

Viktor narrows his eyes, trying to read the man opposite him, before saying nothing for the next few minutes. The wind blows at his hair, no longer obscuring his left eye, which is just as piercingly blue as the other; both are intensely gazing into Yuuri's own eyes - brown pupils blown wide, a deer caught in headlights, with the shine of unshed tears and flushed cheeks from minutes providing that extra emphasis. Viktor does not have any experience of Yakov dealing with people like Yuuri Katsuki, only dramatic Russians who are selfish for all the wrong reasons.

"You really don't remember what happened during the Banquet?" Viktor says, voice low and quiet, not wanting the whole world to hear him so unsure for once.

"I was a mess, Viktor. I'm pretty sure you saw that," Yuuri replies flatly, pushing his glasses up. "What does this have to do with anything?"

Viktor starts going through his phone again. "It wasn't a bad thing - I didn't realise you were friends with so many people-"

"I don't _have_ many friends, sponsors usually talk to Celestino instead," Yuuri interjects, snappy as Viktor was earlier. Yuuri's clearly learnt a few things from and about his coach without his skates on.

"Are you sure we went to the same banquet?" Viktor scoffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Well, I can't really remember much of it," Yuuri reveals, sheepishly. "I think I drank a bit and then Celestino took me up to my room."

"You think you drank a bit?" Viktor raises an eyebrow. " _Drank a bit_?" He laughs once more, borderline hysterical, and Yuuri thinks Viktor drank a bit too much as well. "You swallowed 16 flutes of champagne and then danced out of your clothes and into my arms, Katsuki Yuuri!" Viktor half trips over himself, briefly stumbling. (But he recovers just as quickly.) "That's like a couple of bottles all to yourself!"

"What." It is not said like a question, for that implies Yuuri requires an answer.

"You really don't remember?" Viktor says, eyes widening.

"Remember what?" Yuuri's voice becomes dangerously quiet, drops of panic starting to creep in and peers over to Viktor's phone, where dozens of photos of the banquet are displayed.

"Fuck," Viktor exhales loudly, sagging his shoulders in the manner of a teenager; Yuri Plisetsky would be put to shame. "9 months later- Wow."

 

* * *

 

 

_"I think," Yuuri slurs, "You look lonely." He drapes his tie around the gold medalist's neck, pulling him closer, the first effects of the champagne settling in: a slight flush of rose blooms on cheeks, and a heightened sense of recklessness._

_Viktor replies, sultry, "Do I now?" He presents his half-lidded eyes, a hooded cobra before his prey, metallic lashes fluttering._

_Yuuri Katsuki, he thinks. 6th place, nice spins but really destroyed his free skate. Team America or Japan? Who cares? His eyes are as warm as autumn leaves and his breath is a dangerous mix of complimentary champagne and chocolate. Viktor doesn't mind, whatever this intoxicated, daring patron of his has to offer - he'll take it._

_"Yeah," Yuuri says, dazed. He gasps, as if he's just discovered the colour blue from Viktor's eyes. "I mean, look at you! You're perfect but all you have is a dog and some gold medals." He frowns and huffs, unaffected by Viktor's charms._

_"Oh," Viktor says dumbly - this is not the direction he thought the conversation was going. "I mean I make mistakes too," he shrugs, trying to be casual, giving the Japanese skater a bone, but not enough to become personal with Viktor, leading the conversation out of his control. Viktor's never been one to be dragged somewhere he did not want to be and the world's been forgiving this far._

Y _uuri nods seriously. He places his arm upright on the table and then lays his head on his palm, casually. "I mean, don't worry - I have it a lot worse, I make so many mistakes everyday! I mean not that your experiences are not valid but, uh, yeah! I came out of this Grand Prix dog-less and medal-less! So, don't worry!" Yuuri sits next to Viktor, dropping his tie. His shirt is crumpled. "Ugh. Can't my mistakes just stay in one place?"_

_Ah, Viktor thinks. That's why._

_"To the sacrifices we make for the name of ice skating," Viktor says, softly, subtly tipping his champagne glass forward. "Yuuri?"_

_"Hey," Yuuri says, blinking to keep his eyes open. He stumbles up and grabs Viktor's hand, leading him to the dancefloor, with the grace of a drunk ballet dancer would, obviously. "You should come to Hasetsu one day." Yuuri whispers, "you know - if you get too lonely."_

_"Mhm," Viktor lets Yuuri lead, listening to him ramble about the wonders in the timeless gem of a sleepy seaside town. "I'll consider it." He's already intrigued, but he wants to play hard to get; Yuuri clearly does not realise this, but Viktor has a firm grip on his pride._

_"Gosh, what should I do?" Yuuri gasps, letting go of Viktor. "I'm going home, but Celestino's based in Detroit!" He ponders, tapping his foot on the dance floor and Viktor stands there, intrigued. His eyebrows dance, his forehead shines with sweat and some glitter (?) and he looks absolutely ridiculous. Nonetheless, Viktor found this display very endearing: a drunk person making plans for the sober version, with delayed panic._

_Viktor laughs at Yuuri's seriousness. "Are you coming to Worlds?" He tilts his head in amusement, wondering how his next interaction with Yuuri Katsuki will be like. Would he be on his left or right, when it comes to the podium? Or would he be on top?_

_Would he be on top?_

_(It would be careless of Viktor not to have noticed those abs.)_

_"No," Yuuri says, drawing his eyebrows together. "I'm going home." He nods slowly, agreeing with himself._

_"No, I mean after the Grand Prix!" Viktor laughs, watching Yuuri's face light up in realisation, a sheen of a glow materialising in his eyes._

_"Well," Yuuri drawls, his accent an increasingly indiscernable mix of American and Japanese. "I'm still going home! I have to."_

_Viktor is perplexed, continues to laugh and replies, "What?" There's a beat of silence as the music changes._

_"And I'm gonna need a coach!" Yuuri blurts out. "Aha!" He grabs the Russian, "You can be my coach! That way, I can go home and you can stop being lonely and then..." He steps away from Viktor, sighing, a small smile giving way._

_Viktor's rendered speechless, his suit jacket is a little crumpled and his phone is nowhere to be seen, much to his dismay. He encourages his dancing partner to continue his trail of thought. "And then?_ "

_"And then maybe we'll be happy next time, with a little something made of gold," Yuuri says quietly, a little shier than before, something intimate written in the space between the pair. It's a spark and it's igniting, and Viktor's already hoping Yakov forgives him, before his star pupil steps a foot out of the room, of Russia._

_"Okay," Viktor says, earnestly._

_"Really?" Yuuri stage-whispers, grinning with cherry red cheeks and breathless laughter; he doesn't know he'd already captivated his childhood idol, but he still asked anyway. He grabs Viktor's hands again and twirls both of them around, giddy and riding the high of whatever song plays in the background. "Promise me! Otherwise..." He fumbles over his words, "I won't forgive you!" He pauses. "Or myself!" He adds in afterthought, nodding gravely with all the energy a drunk man could muster._

_Viktor really laughs, for the third time this night. "I promise! You just have to promise you'll remember!"_

_Yuuri doesn't respond with anything but a wide, lopsided grin and an abundance of drunk giggles._

_"Yuuri!" Chris calls from afar, "I got the pole!"_

_Yuuri gasps in surprise and runs off, as the sun does when the moon comes, leaving a stunned Viktor in his wake, with his crumpled suit jacket and an idea._

_He finds his phone and a few more glasses of champagne as the night progresses._

_  
Recent History Searches:_

2:12 am

yurir aktuski

dog vines to cyr at

yuuuuuuuri katsuuuuuukiiiii

what do you mean you cant do that and that its expensive im viktoe nikiforov adn i am lonely as fukc

can you bring an entire building in a plane?

overnight freight companies to japan

10:38 pm

Dog vines

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Yuuri Katsuki and dogs

Does Yuuri Katsuki like dogs?

Is it worth using Aeroflot to fly to your crush???

Why the fuck is Hasetsu so full of hills and rural???

Landing pads in Hasetsu

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Flights to Japan that aren't with Aeroflot

7:49 pm

Flights to Japan

Hasetsu

 

_Yuuri Katsuki, Viktor thinks. 6th place, nice spins and a lovely, lovely smile and voice and hair and face and cheeks and dancing and eyes and he looks and acts like someone Viktor will fall in love with._

 

* * *

  

Yuuri frowns whilst swiping through Viktor's photo gallery. He asks, his voice raising in pitch (and embarrassment), "You had a severe case of- of blue balls and so thought it would be a good idea to fly here because I never directly replied?"

"Uh." Viktor freezes. He runs a hand through his hair before throwing his hands everywhere. "Oh god, I showed up naked when I met you again- _What was I thinking?_ "

"Why is that your biggest worry right now?!" Yuuri continues to swipe frivolously, only pausing to groan whenever a picture of himself came up. "You literally arrived at my house with all of your apartment- You didn't even stop to think once that maybe, I don't know, listening to drunk people isn't the best idea?"

In all seriousness, Viktor huffs, "You were very charming." He softens and then laughs again, this time a more relaxed, carefree chuckle. The streets are bare, but Viktor's presence has always been larger than life, so Yuuri doesn't feel so lonely or cold. "I never knew pole-"

"Stop trying to change the subject," Yuuri admonishes his coach, his cheeks heating up. "We're talking about this whether you like it or not." He steps closer to Viktor, defiantly staring straight at him.

"Okay," Viktor says, raising his hands up in surrender. "Fine."

"So," Yuuri backs away and clears his throat. "I failed to qualify for Worlds after I failed at Nationals, it wasn't hard to piece together that I was going to retire, Viktor," Yuuri sighs, finally looking away from the man next to him.

"You're only 24, Yuuri." Viktor leans over towards Yuuri's face, trying to gain eye contact. Very distracting.

Yuuri scowls. "And you're 28! You're not that much older than me!" He rants, eyes locked towards the sea, irritated. "You're not some untouchable God just because you've won some gold medals and world records," Yuuri huffs in annoyance, "You're incredibly childish sometimes."

"Okay," Viktor agrees quietly, once Yuuri's echoes had faded. Of course he isn't above all of this. "I know."

Yuuri realises what he had just said and his cheeks flood with shame. "Wait, I'm sorry-"

"No," Viktor says. "I should've listened-" _instead of treating you like any other person_. "I think you're the second person who has ever called me childish, the first being Yakov, of course." He chuckles, the last of his syllables softly drifting away as an hushed trivial secret Yuuri will never read on an internet article or magazine. "He says I never listen and that I just do things without thinking." Though Yuuri knows that if Viktor was left unscathed during scandals, it must've been his coach who suffered; it seems Viktor's finally understands that too. His voice is still as velvety smooth as ever, but it's quiet and honest, "I've always been so scared of letting people see me differently, giving them a reason to leave me behind."

They start to make their way back at the onsen once more, Viktor has his hand wrapped around Yuuri's; Yuuri has his eyes on Viktor's profile.

"My sister said you would've made a good politician," Yuuri murmurs, smiling. Now he's the one changing the subject.

Viktor smirks, puffing up his chest in pride. "Is it because I'm handsome, charming and a good coach?"

 

* * *

 

 

_Yuuri turns sixteen and flicks his eyes towards almost 20 year old Viktor Nikiforov, donning the bluest suit from Chanel, covering a glossy, two page spread advertisement. Yuuri sighs at Viktor's hair cascading down his shoulder like a waterfall. He knows that no amount of photoshop could create the Russian's charm - that's all on him._

_Mari scoffs, using her cigarette to point. "He looks like the kind of guy who could sell you lies - look at him! He's wearing something that could buy the onsen a thousand times over!"_

_He sticks his tongue out at his sister, as an immediate first wall of defence. "Your smoke is clouding your judgement."_

_She dismisses his comment. "He's trained to do that, like politicians - making people think dramatics and exterior are what makes everything shine, as an increasingly unrealistic expectation for the people he's trying to appease, and worst of all, himself."_

_"Oh," Yuuri dumbly replies. What unforgiving thing has Viktor Nikiforov got in his sleeve, to make everyone forgive him? Gold isn't a very reactive metal; no wonder he wants more. "But there's a reason why everyone loves him, right? A reason why he keeps winning?"_

_Mari replies, waving her hand away as she leaves. "There's always truth behind people like him, but you have to realise he's also a person too. Think about it this way, Yuuri. Some people can fly to the moon, sure, but they need a rocket."_

_Yuuri wonders if Viktor Nikiforov is a rocket, jetting off into uncharted territories, leading the way for any person who's ever hoped. No one with such a big responsibility like that would lie, right?_

 

* * *

 

 

"No," Yuuri says, facing Viktor once again. He perches on his tiptoes, edging closer to Viktor's face; he can smell a mint and alcohol as the latter leans closer. Yuuri whispers, "It's because you're balding."

"Yuuri!" Viktor howls, placing the back of his hand to his forehead and leaning dramatically on top of Yuuri's shoulder. "You wound me! Here I thought you would forgive me for turning up naked to your childhood home and declaring myself as your coach even though you didn't remember asking me to!"

Not that Viktor will ever know, but, Yuuri already forgave Viktor in Sochi, and Viktor already forgave Yuuri after he had unknowingly walked away with a rushed scribble of a phone number (and Viktor's heart.)

"I can't believe the most decorated skater ever pined for, like, half a year for a drunken failure of a skater, who pole dances in his spare time," Yuuri cackles, shrugging the Russian off his shoulder.

"I can't believe it either," Viktor faux contemplates, dusting himself off. "Because, actually, he's a drunken, _beautiful_ skater, who's also an absolutely _ravishing_ pole dancer in his spare time!"

Yuuri briskly walks on forward, avoiding eye contact and giggling when Viktor follows him with a solid dedication, even if he wobbles a bit from being tipsy. "That's very inappropriate, coach."

"Yuuri!" Viktor cries. "Wait for me!" He trots hopelessly after Yuuri, his previous grievances washed away with the tide, forgotten for now. It's a ceasefire; they're both a little drunk and tired and in love.

It's sobering, noticing how difficult Viktor's had to adjust to something uncertain, as waves of an ocean are never still enough to form ice. All he's ever known was winning - but perhaps that's what made him lose. Many sacrifices were made for Viktor Nikiforov to get to where he is today, as a sculpter using himself as the tools and the marble, a masterpiece - no one will ever truly understand it the way he does. This is what truly made him think, is this truly living? Is this love? Pure gold cannot burn and shine the same way as Yuuri Katsuki can, a dancing firework, unpredictably darting off amongst the stars. (And off the face of the earth and social media.)

Sure, Viktor's a bit childish and extravagant and a tease, but Yuuri knows how to deal with it.  
Yuuri can't know loss and forgiveness without knowing Viktor Nikiforov and Vic- _chan_ , too. And who knows, perhaps he'll let others learn about himself too.

 


End file.
